


A Harsh Mistress

by ssswampert



Series: Trans JNPR [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Bigender Character, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6041518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssswampert/pseuds/ssswampert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes flick down to her chest and away again before he can stop himself, mouth sour and starting to taste like sawdust. She tracks his gaze and automatically, her hand flies to cover her cleavage. “Sorry,” she mumbles, turning red high on the apples of her cheeks.</p><p>“‘S’not <i>your</i> chest, P.” Jaune grips Crocea Mors tighter. He sounds irritated and hates himself for it just like he hates himself for the way his body is shaped.</p><p>(Nothing about actual mistresses in here, sorry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Harsh Mistress

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so this is 100% projection in addition to headcanon. anyways.
> 
> (Jaune is a binary trans man and Ren is bigender, binary boy/binary girl and my headcanon is that ren uses the height of that ponytail to disclose how to address him any specific day. high is girl and low is boy.)

It doesn’t start when he wakes up. It’s almost never immediate at Beacon. It’s always in the back of his mind, yeah, the _they see right through you_ s and the _they all know and they’re just playing along_ s, but he does his best to ignore it. What good was it to dwell on things like _they can tell you’re not_ ** _really_** _a guy_ _even if you think you are_ anyways.

 

It sneaks up on him during Port’s class. The fact that he couldn’t really afford to buy a chest binder on his parents’ coin while he was at Beacon. The fact that it probably wasn’t safe to bind down while learning to fight Grimm, even if he could get his hands on one. The fact that he felt like everyone could see the shape beneath his uniform and  _ know _ what his body looked like.

 

It hits him full force during Goodwitch’s class, running and jumping and tucking and diving away from weapons and fists and feet and semblances. The way this sports bra  _ only _ stops the jiggle if he’s still. He was big enough and the sports bra old enough that it did nearly nothing, not even keep him flat. His chest plate pressed some, but today it wasn’t  _ enough _ ; it just stopped other people from seeing how flat he _wasn't_.

 

After Goodwitch calls the match, Jaune stands in the locker room far longer than he should have to, using dampened paper towels at the sink to wipe the sweat from his neck and face, and then dipping briefly under his sweatshirt to wipe away sweat that trickled down his neck, down between parts of his body he wishes he didn’t have to deal with, wishes didn’t exist. Just so he doesn't have to shower later and feel as though every drop of water from the shower head is thick, thick ooze only he can see, coating him and slowing him down.

 

He drops the paper towel in the garbage bin with more disgust than it should warrant, straightens his sweatshirt, and clutches Crocea Mors close, using his arms more than the sheath as the shield he feels like he needs.

 

As he sneaks back into the stands for the rest of class, he feels like everyone is staring at him. His stomach roils. He tries to keep his eyes on the match--Blake and someone whose name he doesn’t know--as he settles in next to Pyrrha.

 

She leans over and he can’t help a bitter-filled  _ what does she want now _ thought to surface and he chastises himself as he squashes it down.

 

“Are you okay?” she whispers. He shrugs once; short, sharp, quick. Even  _ that _ jostles his chest unpleasantly. “Did you get hurt during the match? How’s your aura?” Pyrrha starts looking him over worriedly, eyebrows creasing.

 

His eyes flick down to her chest and away again before he can stop himself, mouth sour and starting to taste like sawdust. She tracks his gaze and automatically, her hand flies to cover her cleavage. “Sorry,” she mumbles, turning red high on the apples of her cheeks.

 

“‘S’not  _ your _ chest, P.” Jaune grips Crocea Mors tighter. He sounds irritated and hates himself for it just like he hates himself for the way his body is shaped.

 

“Oh,” she squeaks. One of the Haven students looks over their shoulder at the two of them and she waves them off with a tiny  _ I’m sorry! _ , feigning cheerfulness before focusing on Jaune again. “Is it… your chest?” she whispers.

 

“Who else’s would it be?” he snaps, and then reigns himself back in. “Sorry.” He drops his cheek to the pommel of his sword. “Sorry,” he says again. “I don’t mean to be an asshole.”

 

Pyrrha tilts her head, hair sliding over her shoulder as she leans closer to him. “You’re obviously upset...” she starts.

 

“Stop,” he interrupts harshly. Pyrrha sits back, confused. “Pyrrha, you don’t… have to say or do anything, you don’t have to justify me when I’m a jerk.” He swallows, hard. “Sorry,” he says a third time, shoulders curling in.

 

His skin feels all at once too tight and too loose. He feels like everyone is staring at him, even with the sound of gunfire and metal-against-metal adding to the cacophony that is his mental mantra of  _ everyone can tell, everyone knows, everyone can tell _ . His face feels hot in the way it does before he starts to cry and he grits his teeth.

 

Jaune wants to sink his neck into his sweatshirt collar, to hide from the way Pyrrha is looking at him, to hide from the hurt he knows is gonna be shining wetly in her eyes at the way he snapped at her. He lets go of Crocea Mors with one hand to rub his hand over the back of his neck, to cover the curve of his jaw that should be a sharp corner.

 

It hits him full-force then; he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he can feel Pyrrha’s arm drop around him. He wants to shake her off, but he doesn’t want to upset her any more than he surely already has.

 

As if she can see into his mind, she whispers, “I’m not upset.” and rubs at his back. “ _ You _ are, though, and I don’t really understand how it probably feels in your shoes today, but I’m here anyways.” He doesn't deserve her friendship.

 

Goodwitch calls Blake as the winner of the match in front of them he should have been paying attention to, and reminds the class to keep an eye on their aura while fighting. Something deep in Jaune has him feeling smug that he’s not the only one who forgets, but it’s snuffed out by the fact that he has to move, he has to walk, he has to change and get cleaned up, he has to feel that godforsaken  _ jiggle _ again and again and again and suddenly he feels like he can’t breathe.

 

A weight plops down on his other side, another arm crosses his back, and Ren’s voice in his ear says, “You can give them to me if you’d like. I’d really appreciate them today.”

 

“Mister Arc?” Goodwitch’s voice calls up into the stands. “Everyone else has left, save you and your teammates.” The unspoken  _ are you okay _ dangling at the end of that statement is more concern in Goodwitch’s voice than he’s ever heard.

 

Jaune straightens up and turns to Ren instead. He notes Ren’s ponytail is higher today than usual, at the crown of the head instead of nape of the neck. “How could you tell that’s what it was?” he asks quietly.

 

“A girl has her ways,” Ren says, and smiles softly, and there’s the soft shine of gloss on Ren’s mouth, and when she winks at him, Jaune knows.

 

“You’re feelin’ it too, huh?” he asks, mouth twisting to one side in a bitter parody of his usual grin.

 

“I wish we could do more to help you,” Ren says instead, carefully. “How I feel when I am a girl is clearly not as bad as how you feel when you are not.”

 

“I never am,” Jaune replies. Ren gestures with her shoulders and makes a face as if to say  _ my point exactly _ and rubs his back a moment like Pyrrha had been. “We should go before Goodwitch comes up to check on you.”

 

A week later Pyrrha tosses a bubble envelope addressed to  _ Ms Pyrrha Nikos ℅ Beacon Academy _ at him, and just smiles cryptically when he looks up at her, brows knitted together in confusion. He pulls open the flap that had been tucked into the envelope she’d already opened.

 

What he pulls out of the envelope is grey and looks like a tank top with hooks down one side. It's a _binder_.

 

Jaune feels himself tear up, even as the smile he feels starts to hurt his cheeks from how wide it is.


End file.
